


God Isn't In New England

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Eastwick, Supernatural
Genre: Castiel POV, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is drawn to Eastwick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Isn't In New England

The amulet is cool in Castiel’s palm, but that doesn’t explain why the air feels charged and heavy. He has been many places and seen many things (though only a fraction of them with this vessel’s eyes) but there is something unique undeniably present in this place.  

Castiel didn’t know to expect on this search for His Father. He doesn’t know what signs he must look for, though surely there _are_ signs, and it’s his duty to recognize them for what they are. He’d gone to holy places first, naturally, but as he’d passed through Jerusalem, Iraq and northern India, he’d quietly come to the conclusion that the chances of Him being there were slim. Such places were too obvious, too _easy_, and if His Father is hiding (and He must be, for He is not subject to anyone’s laws but His own), it would be somewhere a little more subtle.

After all, everything is a test, and this search is Castiel’s. Uriel used to say that only humans were tested, because humans are forgetful and wouldn’t know faith if it smote them in the face, while angels are beings of faith and never forget anything.  

But Uriel used to say a lot of things.

Castiel still mourns him; the more so when he thinks that he will never know Uriel’s reaction when he does find God.

That search has brought him here to this promising town, though the vessel’s eyes see only its cookie cutter buildings and fresh-faced small town folk. There are many such towns across the country, most of them only distinguishable by the minutiae of details, but here Castiel’s _other_ eyes see a subtle overlay of something that feels very much like _power_, crystallized in the soil beneath his vessel’s shoes. It feels almost like a Seal, and if he’d been here a couple of months ago, that would be exactly what he’d think it was.

But it cannot be Seal. Ipso facto, it must be something else.

Castiel takes a moment to let his grace settle. His Father might be watching now, waiting to see his next move, wanting to see if he’s noticed that—

—that a child is talking to him.  
   
Castiel looks down to big brown eyes and a runny nose. He’d missed the first part of the child’s speech, but manages to catch the gist of what he’s saying.

“Oh, yes,” Castiel says, and looks up to where the child is pointing. There is a kite in a tree. Castiel starts to reach out, the edge of a wing touching the paper construct, when he remembers that that’s not how humans do it.  

He takes a moment to look up at the kite, contemplating the necessary movement from here to there using four limbs, and then slowly turns back to the child. “Am I supposed to climb the tree?”

“M’ not allowed,” the child says.

Castiel thinks the child is saying that _he_, not Castiel, is not allowed to climb the tree. Adult humans are surely allowed to climb trees, but Castiel’s assumptions have been erroneous before. Better not take that chance then. So after a quick glance around to make sure that no one’s watching, he puts both hands on the tree and makes like he’s shaking it. Meanwhile, his wing extends upward, grabs the kite, and pulls.

It flutters down, and Castiel feels a rush of pleased warmth at the open joy on the child’s face. It’s the small things like these that make everything worthwhile.

“R.J.!”

There is a woman marching up to them. She is tiny but her eyes blaze with unbridled anger, and Castiel finds his vessel taking an automatic step backward to press against the tree trunk.  

“R.J., what did I tell you about running off?” she says, kneeling down to talk to the child, who is most likely her son.  

Even as she talks to the child, she glances up at Castiel intermittently, the open suspicion in her gaze unexpectedly hurtful. Surely what Castiel had done was a good thing, but humans are so difficult to predict. He has found that the best strategy in these kinds of situations is to leave.

“Hey,” she says sharply.

Castiel turns back. “Yes?”

“I don’t know what you’re pulling—”

“The kite was in the tree.” He points, in case she’s not sure what he’s referring to. Then he adds quickly, “But I didn’t pull it down, that would’ve been impossible, it was too high.”

Her face goes a little strange.  

Humans make that kind of expression around him _a lot_. He wouldn’t have noticed, except that now he has more time on his hands (being a fugitive does have some benefits), he’s spent some of it studying how humans interact. This expression doesn’t appear nearly as often when they’re interacting with each other than when they do with him. A part of Castiel thinks he should be disheartened by it, but the other part feels that it is a good thing that humans not blessed with second sight are still somehow able to discern that there is something otherworldly about him.

“Well, just…” She looks like she’s about to scold him for something, but thinks better of it. Then she shakes her head and walks away without another word, the child’s hand in hers.

Castiel looks down.

The place where she’d been standing a moment ago is lush green grass, except for the two shoe prints that are burned clean through to the soil beneath.

He kneels down and touches. The soil is not only dry, but _hot_.

Even if he could be persuaded that this is a natural phenomenon indigenous to Eastwick, his essence shudders at the contact, so whatever caused this is inherently magical.

When he looks up, the mother has fled across the square to be reunited with a small brood of children. She glances his way for a second, but turns away quickly, and the whole group shuffles off.  

Curious.

He needs to know more about Eastwick. This town must have been built on a ley line or something similar, and that would make it a place of great interest. The name does sound familiar, but there is a strange blank in his memory when he tries to recall further details, and that… simply doesn’t happen. The memories of the angels are perfect.  

Disturbed by this, Castiel draws out his wings and leaves.

Or at least, he tries to.  

Though he’s no longer in the town square by the tree, he’s standing by a sign that declares _You are now leaving Eastwick, hope to see you again soon_, and when he tries to take a step forward, he finds that he can’t pass the border.

He tries again and again, in the other plane (as many directions as he can, including up) as well as the physical one (jumping, walking, falling forward, surreptitiously hitchhiking on the back of a truck only to fall off when it passes the border) but nothing works. He cannot leave.

Another strategy is required. He pulls out his cellphone and dials. “Dean.”

_“Kind of in the middle of something, Cas. This important?” _

“Yes,” Castiel intones gravely. “I think that I’m trapped in the middle of—”

A voice that isn’t Dean’s says, _“I’m sorry, but the call has been disconnected. You now have zero minutes on your balance.”  
_  
Castiel stares at the traitorous cellphone for a few shocked seconds, and then pockets it calmly. Back to town it is, then.

Only once he gets there, he can’t immediately identify the kind of store he needs. He’s already tired from his many attempts to leave the town, and this is extra hurdle that he doesn’t need right now.  

He approaches the first person he sees. “Excuse, I would like to ask where—”

The woman flails, paper flying like leaves around them as she topples into his chest with a loud “_Oof_!” and bounces off into an awkward forward stumble. Castiel puts her clumsiness down to the dramatic high heels she’s wearing, though he finds it stranger than human women don’t fall like this more often.

As he helps gather her things, she’s babbling, “Sorry, that was typical of me, I thought you were…” She laughs, pausing to push her glasses up her nose. “Tough day, you know what I mean? Deadlines everywhere, though I normally work really well under pressure but there’s only so much one person can take and are you new around here because I’m pretty sure I’d know if you weren’t.”

Castiel carefully picks through her speech to find the question nestled in between. It’s one he gets quite often during his travels, so he settles for his regular answer. “I’m on holiday.” It’s not even a lie, though he doesn’t like to think about it too closely.

“Oh.” She raises an eyebrow. “And you came to _Eastwick_?”

“Yes.”

They get to their feet, the woman rubbing her shoulder as she unfolds herself. “S’like hitting a brick wall,” she mutters, and casts him a dubious once-over.

Castiel belatedly remembers himself and pats his chest once. “Ow.”

“Sorry about that,” she says, awkwardly offering an open palm from beneath the edge of the pile of paper stacked once again in her arms. “Joanna, nice to meet you. It’s a nice town, really, we’re not all weirdos, I promise.”

“I don’t think you’re a weirdo,” Castiel says, but when his hand touches hers, he almost takes it back.

She feels it, too, if the way she’s gone perfectly still is anything to go by.

Castiel immediately tries to identify the charge from her palm but none of the immediate choices – pagan god, demon, a human whose soul has been split – quite fit. He can feel the magic in her skin, but the soul beneath it is very human, tempered by the chaotic emotions that are the norm for their own.  

Then there is the fact to consider that she has sensed something from him as well. While it is understandable that he knows that there is something unnatural about her, what can _she_ possibly glean from him when he is still wrapped in this vessel?

Joanna pulls away first, her eyes sliding away. “Well, I better go on my way…”

“I was looking for a convenience store,” Castiel says.

“What?” She is startled, but Castiel thinks this is more her default state of being than any commentary on his behavior. “Oh, um, there is…”  

Just then Castiel’s essence bristles at the arrival of something unclean, while Joanna’s eyes refocus on something beyond his shoulder.

_Demon._

“Darryl!” Joanna’s voice is very loud. “_Wow_! What are _you_ doing here… On this street… In front of a building you own.”

Castiel turns, and there it is.

“Joanna,” the demon drawls, its eyes shifting to look at Castiel. “Clarence.”

“Oh, friend of yours?” Joanna asks.

“_No_,” Castiel hisses, just as the demon says, “Oh, yes.”

They regard each other.  

Castiel has no idea what the demon is thinking, but _he_ has only one option here, so he steps forward and presses a hand to its meatsuit’s forehead.

Joanna blinks.  
   
Castiel does, too, but his surprise is a different flavor from hers.

The demon, meanwhile, is still right there, unburned from the vessel, and smiling pleasantly. It lets its head drop back off Castiel’s palm, and tilts to the side to whisper, “Not on the first date.” Then, more loudly to Joanna, “He’s foreign. This is how they say hello back where he’s from.”

“Ah,” Joanna says, though there’s something insincere in her tone. “Well, I’ll be off now. I’ll tell Roxie you said hi!” She’s gone with a skip of her heels.

The demon waves a hand at her, though his eyes never leave Castiel’s.  

The jolt of panic that strikes Castiel then is cold and unwelcome. First he hadn’t been able to detect the demon’s presence until it was practically on top of him, and now his touch doesn’t burn. But he’s still an angel – he surreptitiously stretches his wings a bit, just to make sure – and is pleased when the demon’s eyes flick to it briefly. He would’ve been more pleased if the demon had let its inner eyes slip in fear, but Castiel has been following his own rules for some time now, perhaps – perhaps Heaven has finally seen fit to pull more of his abilities away from him?

Castiel is not scared. Not even when the demon grins broadly, as though it is _happy_ to see him.

“I had a massive craving for croissants,” the demon says. “Jeffrey here does some mean pastry. I’d know, I own the place. Won’t you join me?”

“No,” Castiel says automatically.

“You’ve got somewhere else to be?” The demon walks towards the cafe but a few feet away, not acknowledging the harried-looking waiter who comes forward and pulls a chair back for it to sit down.

Castiel watches the demon point at something on the menu, and then lift two fingers to the waiter.

This is an unusual situation. Castiel concedes that this demon’s presence is at least tangentially related to the shielding that has kept him within Eastwick’s borders, but it is not – it _cannot_ – be the demon’s doing, because no demon has that power. He cannot ask the demon, because he cannot trust anything it says, but it is also true that never in Castiel’s long life has a demon looked pleased to see an angel.

He joins the demon at the table, but does not touch the coffee or the croissants presented to him.

“You have questions,” the demon says.

“Perhaps,” Castiel says.

“Okay then, maybe you can answer mine, like by telling me what you’re doing here,” the demon says, and this is already one surprise for Castiel, to whom it hadn’t even occurred that the demon would be just as surprised to see him, not when the demon had responded so... _welcoming_ isn’t quite the right word, but it’s hard to think of another at the moment.

“I’m not obligated to answer anything,” Castiel says.

“You just came in?” the demon asks. “Just like that?”

Castiel thinks the question is odd.

“Well, I’ll be.” The demon gives him a long, considering look, and then shakes its head. “You can’t come in here without being invited. None of us can.”

“Invited?” Castiel feels his vessel frown while he ignores the use of the word _‘us’_. “But I wasn’t...”

But he _had_, hadn’t he? He’d felt a whisper as he’d felt as he’d flown over the Eastern Seaboard. It was almost, but not quite, like the Metratron summoning the Host, only a suggestion instead of an order. Having been cut off so harshly from the welcoming song of the Host, he’d gone without thinking, and the next thing he knew he’d been standing in the town square, by that tree.

“Why would I be invited?” Castiel asks.

It’s a rhetorical question, so he’s annoyed when the demon says, “Beats me, seems like a step backward if anything. But isn’t that just the case? Once you get a little progress on the home front – then _whammo_! Feather brigade comes a-knockin’.” Once the demon’s done laughing, it bites into a cut-off piece of croissant and chews insolently in Castiel’s direction.

This demon is far too relaxed in his presence. Castiel doesn’t like it. “Shouldn’t you be preoccupied with other... affairs?”  

“Like what?”

“Your Master rising, one would think.”

“_Pfft_.” The demon shrugs. “You sure you’re not gonna eat that? No? More for me. Anyway, you’re one to speak. Your fratboy brothers are the ones making the most noise these days. Shouldn’t _you_ be preoccupied with _that_?”

Castiel ignores the question. “_If_ you were invited,” pressing on _if_, because he’s nowhere near ready to accept that a demon may be telling the truth, “Who invited you?”

The demon leans forward a little, like it’s sharing a secret. “You _know_ who.”  

When Castiel refuses to rise to the bait, the demon sighs and flicks its eyes sideways briefly.

Castiel turns to look.

Standing partially hidden by a tree are three women: Joanna, the mother from earlier, and a third fair-haired one. One of them gasps when they see him looking, and then all three are vehemently looking elsewhere.

“What are they?” Castiel asks.

“What do you think they are?”

“They are humans,” Castiel says. But even as he says it he knows that it’s not the complete picture, not when their proximity has caused something to tinge the air around them like a halo, visible only to those with second sight. That they are three points of a triangle (a _coven_) should be cause for concern, but they are not the empty and cruel shells that Castiel knows witches are supposed to look like.  

These three have souls that are glowing and vibrant. The earth seems to sing beneath their feet in praise.

But even as they glow, Castiel can see the tainted slivers where this demon has touched them.

“You’re trying to convert them,” Castiel says.

The demon blinks at him. “What a way to put it.”

“Are you attempting to recruit them to Lucifer’s army?” Castiel asks.

“What? No.” The demon actually looks affronted at the suggestion. “And can you please stop calling me demon?”  

“I haven’t called you anything.”

“In your head you are,” it says, and to Castiel’s horror, the demon reaches across the table to poke him in the forehead. He barely stops himself and his chair from toppling over backward, fingers gripping the table cloth (why doesn’t his skin burn at the contact, that isn’t _right_), while the demon calmly adds, “I can see it in your eyes. You really don’t wear that thing very well. How much mileage you got? One, two months?”

“I’ve been in this vessel for... It’s none of your business.” Worse than anger, Castiel is now irritated. “I’ve had enough.”

“And where will you go?” the demon asks sharply. “You can’t leave. Not when you’ve been invited.”

“That would mean that _you_ can’t leave this place either.”

“But the difference is I don’t _want_ to,” the demon says. “Obviously you’re going to take everything I say with a grain of salt – heh – but this next part is truth, whittled down to the bone of Eastwick itself: this land is _theirs_. You are bound by them as long as you’re here, and you only have powers if _they_ let you.”

Castiel shakes his head sharply. “No. I’m an Angel of the Lord, I only follow the rules of—”

“Don’t give me that,” the demon says, rolling its eyes. “I’m not blind, Clarence. _You_ are half-fallen. Oh, hit a sore spot, did I? My apologies, _angel_.” Castiel’s grace bristles at the tone, which makes the word sound like one of Dean’s curse words, so naturally the demon notices this and grins.  

“You gain nothing by telling me this,” Castiel says. “So it must all be lies.”

“And this is why I love talking to angels,” the demon says. “You’re a Sunday riot.”

Castiel ignores the demon, instead turning to look at the three women again. They appear to be arguing now.

“You can’t have them,” Castiel declares softly.

“Who’s going to stop me?” the demon asks. “_You_?”

“Yes.”

“Wait.” The demon looks perplexed. “But you don’t believe anything I just said.”

“Yes.”

“I’m confused. And I’ll have you know that that doesn’t happen very often.”

“You are a demon,” Castiel says. “And they are good souls. Obviously you have ill intentions towards them and I cannot let those intentions come to fruition.”

The demon looks away. If Castiel were more in tune with the subtleties of human expressions, he’d have recognized the look on its face as pleasure. As it is, Castiel merely took it as the demon trying to mask its disappointment.  

Castiel stands up. He has decided that this is another one of His Father’s tests. There are three souls he knows of in Eastwick that need to be saved, and that’s not counting the rest of its inhabitants whom no doubt have already or will soon come in contact with the demon’s ill purpose.  

“What do I win if I win?” the demon asks.

Castiel frowns. “Is that a metaphor?”

“No, no, I meant... You really haven’t been around long, have you?”

“Long enough,” Castiel says sharply.

The fair-haired lady of the trio is marching towards them. Joanna is waving her arms frantically, looking mildly horrified, while the red-haired one is standing with her arms firmly crossed.  

The demon notices her approaching and stands up. “Roxie,” he says warmly.

“Darryl, are you scaring the new guy?” Roxie asks, once she is close enough. She places a hand on the demon’s shoulder and Castiel barely stops himself from hissing.  

“He’s tougher than he looks,” the demon says. “It’ll take more than me to scare him off, Roxie.”

Castiel tries to find the insult that must be in there somewhere.

“Come on,” Roxie says, and Castiel is surprised when he realizes that she’s talking to _him_. Her hand is beckoning, her smile open. “This guy’s a bad influence.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees.

“You wound me,” the demon says, its hand brushing Roxie’s waist as she moves away from him.

That in itself is an alarming sign of familiarity; Castiel has his work cut out for him. He stands up, and Roxie beams, tossing an eye-roll back at the demon as they walk away from the cafe.

“I hope you don’t mind me being a busybody,” Roxie says, bending a little to whisper to Castiel, “But Darryl Van Horne’s bad news. I should know.”

“I would think that you do,” Castiel says.

Roxie flinches. “You’ve been in town five minutes and you already know?”

“Know what?”

“That I… never mind.” Roxie shakes her head quickly.  

“He’s your friend,” Castiel says.

“Not exactly.” Roxie sighs. “It’s complicated. It’s just.... I mean, not to freak you out or anything, but I saw the way he was looking at you. That is _not_ a good look.”

He nods. Her logic is impeccable, and Castiel is touched that she would try to warn him, since she has no way of knowing that he knows very well how devious demons are. Even so, she doesn’t seem to be satisfied with his agreement; she is openly struggling to say something.

Castiel takes pity on her. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to make a call, and I ran out of minutes.”  

Roxie looks relieved. She is so warm, a mother goddess brought to life, and Castiel relaxes under the gentleness of her smile.  

“Sure,” she says. “My shop is just around the corner, come on.”

Castiel doesn’t miss the demon’s low whisper behind him: “Game _on_, Clarence.”


End file.
